


Not Deserved, but Needed

by nameloc_ar_115



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Derek is a grump, Drowning, Hurt/Comfort, Kelpies, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Stiles is a brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameloc_ar_115/pseuds/nameloc_ar_115
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since the Matt-Kanima debacle of sophomore year, Stiles had always remembered—in explicit detail—the phases a person underwent while drowning. Nothing quite supplemented knowledge like experience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Deserved, but Needed

                “— _dare_ die, you sonofabitch.” Death couldn’t be this painful…or aggressive. And did he already mention the whole pain part? Because _ow_.

                Before he could process anything else, Stiles lurched sideways to vomit. No, not to vomit. To cough. Expelling a worrying amount of water with heavy pulls of intercostal muscle and diaphragm that left his ribs aching and tender. His breaths were loud and sucking, sonorous like a whale call.

                Consciousness was coming back to him in layers. Sound, vision, then penetrating coldness and a stale, algal taste in his mouth.

                The world looked like it had been put in front of a fisheye lens, which was too fucking hysterical for someone who had been sleeping with the fishes minutes ago. He blinked several times, and his lenses refocused until the surroundings had normal dimensions again.

                “—goddamn idiot. What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Stiles had been neglecting Derek’s stream of ear-withering abuse and reprimands due to the whole coming-back-to-life thing, but the wolf’s snarled words were difficult to ignore completely. Mainly because of their volume and…passion.  

                “What happened?” If coughing felt like the equivalent of acupuncture to the pharynx, then it wasn’t a surprise that talking turned out to be similarly slicing and vicious. He guessed that swallowing half a gallon of water—freshwater or not—was bound to tear up a guy’s throat.

                “‘ _What happened?’_ A kelpie tried to make you her new best friend because, you know, she forgot most people can’t breathe underwater and killed the last seven candidates.” Derek’s snark was reaching levels almost comparable to his own, which would have been commendable if it hadn’t been directed towards him.

                “I remember that part. I was there.” Stiles tried to sit up, but he was dizzy, and his head was pounding ferociously, his ears burning from the underwater pressure. He slumped back onto the rocky bank next to the lake.

                “Scott told you not to go looking for her by yourself. But you just can’t fucking listen to anyone, can you?” Derek growled.

                Like Stiles, the wolf was also drenched, although he couldn’t be nearly as cold as Stiles was. His toes hurt, his fucking _eyeballs_ even hurt, and he couldn’t stop shaking. It was unfair that he was so numb yet still in so much pain. He wished his body would pick one.

                “I was just scouting possible locations where she could be. As you pointed out, she had already killed seven people in the last month. I was going to get Scott if I actually found her. Besides,” he mumbled, “she wasn’t supposed to be able to leave the water. She came from out of the woods and snuck up on me, and that’s cheating.”

                Derek’s eyes flashed, and his nostrils flared, and Stiles couldn’t tell whether the wolf was enduring an aneurysm or planning to return him to the land of the dead.

                “Kelpies can take human, corporeal form out of the water. If you would’ve asked Argent or me or _anyone_ before gallivanting through the woods by yourself, you would have known that.”

                Stiles might have blushed in shame if his blood wasn’t slush in his veins right now. “Did you tell Scott?” He winced at the thought of Scott worrying about him, his reaction when he found out that his best friend almost died helpless and alone.

                “You’re lucky I haven’t called your fucking father. He would lock you in your room and never let you out again.”

                “My poor old man has an easier time locking up convicts, and we both know it.” Stiles finally pushed himself up into a sitting position, his arms trembling with muscle fatigue, and something was wrong with his—

                “Did you give me CPR?” Stiles asked, his fingers probing his chest gingerly.

                Derek was sitting a few feet away, leveling Stiles with a ferocious glare. “I had to. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you out.”

                “I think you cracked my sternum. _Christ_ , dude.” Stiles massaged his breastbone and flinched.

                “Let’s go. Before you get hypothermia.” Derek unceremoniously threw his jacket towards him, and while it wasn’t warm, it was dry. Good enough. Smelled pretty good, too.

                Stiles pulled it tightly around himself and shivered, rising onto his wobbly legs. He felt like a newborn fawn fresh from the womb. Thankfully, he was dripping with water and not placental blood and tissue.

                “What about my Jeep?” Stiles asked in horror, when he saw Derek’s over-compensating Toyota parked near it.

                “Not my problem,” Derek grunted, wrenching open his car door.

                Stiles planted his feet as firmly as he could and crossed his arms. “I’m not leaving my Jeep in the middle of the woods where some animal or hooligan youth will defile her.”

                “Are you _fucking_ —Stiles, get in the goddamned car.”

                “No. I’ll drive myself home.” He moved towards his vehicle only to be blocked by Derek at his driver-side door.

                “You’re shaking like an epileptic. You’ll kill yourself or someone else trying to get home.”

                “I guess we’ll just have to take her then.” Stiles smiled with unbridled satisfaction and patted his baby’s hood. As awful as it was to think, Derek could buy fifty new cars with the money he had. His single-parent, county-employed father couldn’t, and neither could Stiles.

                “You don’t want me to ruin your fine upholstery anyway, do you?” Derek’s deep, carved scowl didn’t change. “Jesus, fine, I promise I’ll pay for any of the damages your vehicle incurs overnight.”

                “Get. In. The Jeep.”

                Stiles hurriedly shuffled into the passenger’s side, buckling his seatbelt. Once Derek turned the ignition, he switched the heat on to low power. While it was infinitely nicer than the breezy evening, it wasn’t hot enough. Stiles’ hand reached out for the dial, and it was slapped away.

                “Your body just went through a major shock. It needs to adjust gradually. If you blast it with heat, you’re only going to send your system farther out of whack.”

                Stiles grumbled and pulled the coat collar around his neck and ears. “Whatever you say, Dr. Derek.”

                As retribution, Derek jerked the gearshift brutally, the Jeep whining and grating in protest.

                “ _Fuck_. Okay, I get it. Be careful.”

                A few minutes later, they had pulled onto the main road from the woods. Derek made a right at the first intersection.

                “Wait, where are you taking me?” Stiles asked worriedly.

                “Home.” It was clear in his tone that Derek thought he was an absolute idiot.

                “ _No_ , no. You can’t take me there. My dad’s home. I told him I was at Scott’s.”

                “Too bad. We’re already going that way.”

                Stiles gripped Derek’s shoulder, and the wolf tore his eyes off the road for a few seconds to ogle it, like it was some foreign object he had never encountered before. “Please, Derek. I know I fucked up tonight. I did. But he only got reinstated a few months ago, and people are already dying again, and-and he can’t— _please_.”

                Derek flicked his eyes from the road back to Stiles, wordless and considering. He sighed and pulled over onto the shoulder, waiting for the traffic to clear so that he could make a U-turn.

                “Thank you,” Stiles said quietly. “And for…being there. Saving me. I’ve been giving you a hard time, but I, um—you have to know that I’m—”

                “I know, Stiles. It’s okay.”

                “I realize I’ve asked for a lot of favors tonight, but can I ask one last thing?”

                Derek nodded.

                “What happened to her? I mean, I’m guessing you killed her.”

                “I did.” Derek breathed out slowly, his knuckles blanching where they gripped the wheel. “I slit her throat, chewed through it until it severed from her body. She can’t come back from that. Luckily, she needed to stay corporeal to hold you under, or else she would’ve been impervious.”

                Stiles turned his head to look out the passenger-side window. “Yeah. Lucky.”

                They drove in silence, and even amidst his intense physical discomfort, Stiles found sleep.

* * *

                Waking up the second time around was a lot better than the first. Yes, he was still damp and sore and achy, but his headache had softened, and the burning in his eyes and ears was gone.

                Stiles felt his body swaying gently, moving, but not of its own accord. His eyes fluttered open, lids still heavy with exhaustion. Dying really took a lot out of person. And so did water density. He had been flailing and kicking and thrashing pretty heartily in the kelpie’s grasp before he passed out.

                “Wha’s happening?” Stiles’ voice was slurred on account of his mouth being smushed against something solid and warm. Oh, that was Derek’s pec. His pectoral. All bulging and pillowy. A pillowy pec. _Please, god, stop._

                “We’re almost to the loft,” the wolf answered.

                Somehow, Derek unlocked his front door while still maintaining a formidable bridal carry. Stiles groaned when Derek set him down. He didn’t want to be standing; he wanted to be sleeping.

                Stiles saw the couch and made a beeline for it, but Derek yanked him by the back of the shirt. Like a mother wolf grabbing her pup’s scruff.

                “You need to change out of those clothes first.”

                “Just throw a garbage bag on the couch. I swear I won’t get it wet.”

                Derek huffed and dragged him over to the small dresser near Derek’s bed. He thrust some clothes into Stiles’ arms and gave him a motivational nudge towards the bathroom.

                “Don’t make me come in there after you,” the wolf warned.

                Stiles flapped his hand in some conciliatory gesture and changed in the bathroom. It was an excessively laborious process with how his clothes were plastered against him like another layer of skin. And then of course his elbow got stuck in his wet t-shirt, and he nearly dislocated his shoulder trying to free it.

                Still, he did feel significantly better in dry clothes. Comfy clothes. Worn clothes. Old clothes of Derek’s. Favorites maybe? Stiles had a few threadbare articles himself that he couldn’t get rid of.

                When he emerged, Derek, too, had changed out of his wet clothes. He held out a hand expectantly and then rolled his eyes and snatched Stiles’ clothes from him when he received no response.

                “I’ll put these in the dryer. So you can wear them tomorrow morning.” Stiles was aghast. Derek was drying his clothes for him. It was just so _thoughtful_. Would Derek know that he took off his underwear? It felt disrespectful to go commando in Derek’s borrowed clothing, but he couldn’t put dry clothes on over wet underwear. That was an unbearable torture that no one deserved. Oh god, his dick was rubbing all over the inside of Derek’s sweatpants right now with every step he took.

                Stiles wasn’t sure what his current expression was conveying, but Derek’s mouth flattened into a tense line. “Just get into bed,” he gritted out.

                “Bed? Your bed? Are you testing me, Derek? Is this a trick?” Derek walked away without answering, presumably going to wherever the hell the laundry room was in this apartment.

                Stiles’ eyes skipped from the tattered couch to Derek’s king-size bed. Piled high with pillows and a thick comforter. It only took three seconds’ worth of deliberation before he literally hopped into Derek’s bed and wormed under the covers. He moaned in ecstasy, curling on his side in the fetal position, the blankets tucked up to his shoulders.

                Despite what Derek thought, Stiles was not an idiot.

* * *

                God, everything _hurt_ this deep underwater. The weight above him trying to crush him flat. He couldn’t even dive to the deep end in swim class without feeling like someone was twisting knives in his ears. He had only done it once, to pull a surly werewolf out of its chlorinated depths.

                This was not the same. This was unending, prolonged suffering. Not like a gun pressed to his head or claws at his throat. He could handle that. He was used to that.

                He was living through his death, dying, actively, every second.

                She spoke close to his ear, the bubbles tickling the back of his neck. She promised to love him forever. All he had to do was let go. Succumb. Ascend.

                Her arms were slippery, cold marble, banded tightly across his chest and stomach to suppress his squirming. A volatile hug.

                His lungs were dry and burning, itching, his skull screaming. Blackness bled into the corners of his eyes, and he started wailing inside of his own head.

                _No, no, no, no, no._ He felt himself slipping away. _Hold on, no, no, please._

_No—_

“ _No_ ,” he yelled, ripping up his raw throat, throwing his arms and legs wildly. Incomprehensible strength was pinning him, caging him, keeping him where he didn’t want to be. “No, no, wait, please, let me go.”

                “Stiles, _Stiles_ , calm down. You were dreaming. Open your eyes, dammit.”

                He did, and the room was dark like the bottom of the lake. But it wasn’t the lake. It was Derek, holding onto his shoulders, the moonlight catching his face and his neck.

                Stiles swallowed some heaving breaths and wiped wildly at the tears on his face. “Sorry.” He pushed himself up and pressed his forehead into his hands.

                “It’s okay. I know a thing or two about nightmares.” The quirk of Derek’s lips was a sad one. Stiles hoped that he would catch a real smile from him one day.

                “What time is it?”

                “Almost midnight. You should sleep more.”

                Stiles leaned against the wall, pulling the covers over his lap. “I’m sure I will. I just need a few minutes.”

                Derek nodded and rose from the side of the bed. “Being afraid of death doesn’t make you weak,” he stated.

                “What makes you weak?” Stiles asked quietly, watching Derek’s face with attention.

                _Wait for it, wait for it, there it is_. Like a switch, Derek’s mouth dipped into a frown, his imaginary hackles rising, shoulders tensing. A perceived threat.

                Stiles tried again. An easier question this time. “How did you find me?”

                Derek’s expression sharpened, the skin seemed to tighten across his firm jaw and taut cheekbones. Maybe not so easy after all.

                “Your bed’s comfortable,” Stiles noted in an absent voice. It was anything but, and the wolf could sense it. His eyes narrowed.

                “Why did you bring me here?” Stiles continued.

                “You asked me to.”

                “I didn’t. I said don’t take me home. You could have dropped me off at Scott’s.”

                Derek twitched. He crossed his arms over his chest, but he wasn’t posturing or puffing himself out to convey strength and intimidation. His shoulders hunched inwards the slightest bit, and it seemed like he was protecting himself.

                Stiles kept his voice even. He kept going, partly in curiosity, to keep pulling this thread and see what it connected to, what was at its end. The other part was a blind need to acquire closure. Death had a way of adding perspective.

                “There’s a spare bedroom upstairs, you know. Well, of course you know, it’s your apartment.”

                “Stop it,” Derek growled, like it was a risk for him even to acknowledge Stiles’ meaning to that degree.

                Stiles pulled the covers back and stood up. Derek recoiled in his stance but didn’t lift his feet to move backwards. He wouldn’t let himself be that vulnerable.

                Stiles knew the art of negotiation, mostly due to living with a single parent for half his life. The key was to start large and impossible and work downwards from there.           

                “Hate me,” he whispered, stepping forward.

                “Stiles, I don’t know—”

                “Hurt me.” He pressed a palm to his sternum, where a bruise was blossoming at that very moment.

                Some emotion flickered through the wolf’s eyes, and his mouth parted. Stiles had inched forwards gently and was close enough to bump chests with Derek now.

                “Fuck me,” he rasped, grasping handfuls of Derek’s shirt like a lifeline. He felt a shuddered breath under his hands.

                “Kiss me.” He laid one cheek against the wolf’s collarbone, like when Derek carried him up to the loft hours ago. Too hesitant to wake him.

                “Hold me,” he begged softly, straining.

                _Love me._

                Derek’s arms wrapped around him, cupping his skull and sliding low on his back. Stiles released Derek’s shirt to squeeze his torso. Thick and palpable, hot.

                “You’re seventeen years old,” Derek noted with a mouthful of gravel.

                “I’ll still want you in a year.”

                “Then there’s no reason not to wait,” he murmured, pressing a long, slow kiss against Stiles’ forehead.

                Derek led him back to bed, this time joining him. Stiles huddled against his chest, head under Derek’s chin, the blankets pulled up high.

                “I’m sorry I scared you,” Stiles whispered. “I-I didn’t know then that you—”

                “I always have.” Derek stroked through the back of his hair.

                Stiles rubbed his cheek against Derek’s peeking skin. “I’ll be more careful in the future, but you have to, too. No more suicide missions or one-man shows.”

                “I promise. For as long as I live.”


End file.
